"It means the man he is about to present has yet to declare himself, and I am to secure his support at all costs," St. Jerome finished with a nod. "Aye, Miss Terrington, I understand, but I think you and Creshton have the wrong of it."
"The wrong of what?" Addy demanded, piqued he should find fault with the code she and the others had spent several hours concocting.
"With showing Wellington's enemies the back of me," he replied coolly. "Were the general here, he would tell you that you never turn your back on an enemy in a fight. If you cannot destroy him, then you'd best be after winning him to your side."
"Indeed?" Addy sat back in her chair, much struck by the observation. "I should have thought it better sense to keep one's enemies as far from one as possible."
A feral grin touched St. Jerome's lips, making him look like the battle-hardened soldier he was. "A misconception, Miss Terrington. In a battle you want your enemy always in front of you, where you know where he is and what he is about."
"What of the enemies you have won to your side?" Addy asked, intrigued by this glimpse into the masculine mind.
"Them you keep where they'll do the least damage, and keep in mind always that they are the enemy. Trust them, but only so far. Keep them close, but not so close they can put a knife in you. And never tell them other than what you want them to carry back to your enemy's camp."
Because it made such sense, Addy offered no argument. But the viscount's observation made her even more aware of how very different he was from the other men she'd tutored. None of them possessed such cold intelligence and supreme self-confidence, and she wondered how much longer his lordship would stand in need of her services. Given the strides he had already made, he could doubtlessly take on a battalion of the ton's most imperious members, and emerge the victor. The thought was as unexpectedly disheartening as it was pleasing.
Aunt Matilda joined them, and they spent the afternoon reviewing everything the viscount would need to know to get through the evening. He'd mastered the necessary arrogance and charm required of his rank with equal success, but Addy decided his flirting skills needed a bit of work.
"There will be several eligible young ladies at tonight's ball," she told him as they took a break from training to enjoy a bit of luncheon. "You will want to have at least two of them falling at your feet by evening's end. No man is counted a complete success until he has set a few chits to swooning in the course of the Season."
To her amusement, an appalled look flashed across the viscount's face. "You're mad," he said, a faint tide of red washing over his tanned cheeks. "That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! As if any man should want a female who behaved so foolishly!"
"Of course it's nonsense, lad; we are speaking of Society," Aunt Matilda counseled in her practical manner. "And as for your not wanting one of those tiresome chits, that's hardly the issue, is it? The issue is to make them want you. How else are we to get them to have their papas invite you to their homes?"
"I still think it's naught but foolishness," he grumbled, glaring at Addy as if suspecting her of trickery. "It cannot be true."
"Every word, my lord," she assured him solemnly. "And you needn't look so outraged. At least you're not the one expected to collapse like a souffle merely because some man has deigned to glance in your direction."
He set his wine glass down with a thump. "Are you saying you have swooned at some man's feet?" he demanded.
Addy opened her lips to deny the charge, but her aunt answered for her.
"Adalaide?" she chortled, delicately covering her mouth with her napkin. "Swoon? If only she had done so! Then she might have managed to snare herself a husband, instead of going through three Seasons without receiving a single offer."
Even though it was nothing less than the truth, Addy flushed with mortification. "Stuff," she said, hiding her humiliation with a sniff. "One snares rabbits, Aunt, not husbands. Besides, even if I'd received a dozen offers, the result would have been the same. A spinster I am, and a spinster I mean to remain."
"You can see, my lord, the cross I am made to bear," Aunt Matilda mourned, turning to St. Jerome with a put-upon sigh. "Whatever am I to do with so unnatural a creature? I do not suppose you would consent to marry her?"
Addy's fork clattered to the table. "Aunt Matilda!"
"Oh, do not put yourself in such a taking, Adalaide," her aunt retorted, shaking her head. "His lordship knows quite well I was only funning. Don't you, my lord?"
"Indeed, Lady Fareham, I did not," the treacherous viscount responded, sounding absurdly downcast. "Does this mean my offer will not be considered?"
"Considered?" Aunt Matilda gave another cackle of laughter. "Dear boy, did I think you in earnest, I should have accepted before you had the words half out of your mouth!"
Addy managed a smile, even as her heart was twisting in her chest. She was accustomed to being teased for her odd views on the married state, but for reasons she could not fathom, it hurt that his lordship should make a jest of marrying her. Perhaps Reginald was right and she'd grown rigid and humorless in her dotage, she thought. The prospect was nearly as displeasing as being a wife.
"Miss Terrington?" Lord St. Jerome reached out and covered her hand with his own. "Are you all right? 'Twas only a joke, you know. We meant no offense."
She was quick to gather her wits and her pride about her. "Who is offended?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I was planning my trousseau."
He jerked back his hand as if her flesh had become overheated. "Your trousseau?"
"Mmmm." She nibbled on a bite of salmon pie, pretending to linger over the delicate flavor. "There are many, sir, who would consider your words an offer in form. But don't worry," she added, smiling at his horrified expression, "I shan't hold you to them. Have you tried the fish? Cook is a wizard with sauce."
Six hours later Ross stood before his glass, staring at the reflection of a stranger.
"Is everything to your liking, my lord?" Joseph hovered at his elbow, wringing his hands in agitation. "I know the cravat is higher than you like, but it is all the rage, I do assure you. I—I can tie another, if you wish."
He sounded so near to tears at the prospect, Ross decided to take pity upon him. "No, Joseph, this will be fine, I thank you. 'Tis only that I am accustomed to seeing myself in uniform, and 'tis something of a shock to see myself rigged out in a gentleman's togs."
Joseph rose on tiptoe to run the brush over Ross's shoulders. "As if one should mention an ill-sewn Army jacket and one cut by Weston himself in the same breath," he said in accents of horror. "There is simply no comparison."
Ross merely shrugged. He'd left Miss Terrington's with precise instructions as to what he should wear, and it mattered riot to him how it looked. He glanced again at his reflection, thinking that if discomfort was any measure of style, then the jacket he was stuffed into had to be the most fashionable garment in the whole of London.
Cut from black velvet, with wide lapels and claw-hammer tails, the jacket clung tightly to his shoulders and arms. It was handsome enough, but it restricted his movements in a manner he found singularly distracting. How the devil was a man to draw a sword or fire a weapon trussed up like a roasting chicken?
Then there were the oyster-colored evening breeches Miss Terrington had insisted he wear. They were made of satin, and their indecent fit had him praying he would make it through the evening without splitting the seams. That would set the chits to swooning and make no doubt, he thought, his lips curving as he imagined the scandalous scene that would likely ensure. He wondered if his exacting instructress would be pleased or furious.
"His lordship left a rather extensive collection of jewels," Joseph said, offering Ross a flat velvet-colored case. "Perhaps you might find something to suit you."
Curious, Ross flicked open the case, and what he found nearly had the eyes popping out of his head. "Good God!" he exclaimed, staring down at the glittering array in amazement. "There must be a fortune here!"
Nevil, who was now dressed in one of Ross's newer jackets and breeches, stepped forward to examine the box. "Looks like one of them treasure chests you hear about," he decided. "Your uncle must have been a regular peacock to be needing all of this."
"He might have needed it, but I do not," Ross replied, holding up a length of gold chain ending in a sparkling diamond fob and examining it with a glare. Satins and velvet were one thing, he decided, but his Scots practicality was outraged at the thought of such a foolish waste of money. "What the devil am I to do with it?"
"Wear 'em," Nevil advised, giving Ross a knowing look. "Let the enemy know you've the cannon to back your infantry. It will make them respect you, and that will make victory all the easier."
Because he could see the tactical sense of that, Ross slipped on the gold signet ring with his family's crest laid out in jewels. He also submitted to Joseph's suggestion of a stickpin topped with an emerald, but he coldly drew the line at wearing anything else. He was about to order the case put away when a flash of brilliant blue caught his eye.
"Wait, what is this?" he asked, and then the breath lodged in his throat when he lifted up a stunning necklace of icy diamonds and sapphires.
"Ah, that is the necklace Mr. McNeil spoke of," Joseph said, inching forward to gaze down at the necklace in awe. "Your uncle had it designed for the young lady he meant to marry, but the poor child died a few weeks before the wedding. His lordship never recovered, he said."
Ross stared at the necklace in silence, trying to think of the hard, hateful old man as a young man so in love that his fiancee's death left him bitter and broken. Or perhaps the marriage was but one of convenience, he decided, and his uncle had regarded the purchase of the necklace as nothing more than a shrewd investment. Certainly that would fit the image of the vindictive and controlling man Ross remembered. But as he studied the flash and dazzle of the exquisite jewels, he realized he had wronged his uncle. This was a gift of the heart. A gift of love that had become a painful and permanent reminder of what might have been. He returned the necklace to its velvet bed, thinking the blue stones were nearly the color of Miss Terrington's eyes.
"It's very lovely," he said quietly, closing the lid and handing the case back to Joseph. "And valuable as well. I wonder my cousin didn't take it with him when he left."
"Oh, he tried, my lord." Joseph smirked in satisfaction. "But your uncle's solicitors had anticipated such an action, and the jewels were kept in the solicitors' safe until it was certain you would be accepting the title. Mr. Atherton," he added with a prim sniff, "was said to be quite put out."
After his valet left, Ross ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the curls Joseph had taken such pains to arrange. "Bloody nonsense," he told Nevil, brushing the golden strands to his own satisfaction. "They might dress me like a useless dandy, but I'll be damned if they'll make me into one. They'll be after painting my face next, I'll warrant."
"No need to fear that, Sergeant." Nevil chuckled. "Joseph let slip how delighted he was that you was so tanned. No need to slap on the walnut stain, he said."
Ross repressed a shudder. During his recuperation he'd overheard Miss Terrington and her aunt debating whether or not they would have to resort to cosmetics to give him the proper appearance of manly vigor. Lady Fareham was against it, bless her, but Miss Terrington was of the opinion it might prove just the thing. It was all the rage amongst the Corinthians, apparently, and Ross remembered shaking his head at the foolishness of Sassenachs. If a man wanted a tanned complexion, why didn't he simply go out into the fields for a good day's work?
"I did as you asked," Nevil continued, comfortable with Ross's silence. "Only new man to hire on is George, one of the downstairs footmen. The others have been here since your uncle's time, and they've not but ill to speak of your cousin. A vicious, sorry sort he seems to have been, and I doubt any of them would so much as lift a finger to aid him."
"Keep an eye on George while he's in the house," Ross decided, realizing it was time to go. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, but he sternly refused to call it fear. That would be too lowering to even consider.
"And when he's away from it, what then?" Nevil wanted to know. "If you wish, I've some comrades, former soldiers like myself, in need of honest employment. I could ask them to keep watch on him. Higgins would do best. He was one of Wellington's spies until a blasted infection took his leg."
"Hire him," Ross said at once. "Any man who can please the general will do well enough for me."
"What of the others?"
"Hire them as well," Ross told him, realizing with a jolt the good he could now do as a wealthy man. "In fact, spread the word amongst your friends. Any former soldier in need of employ is to come to me. I will see he is given work."
Nevil studied him thoughtfully. "I know what you're about, Sergeant," he said in a gentle voice, "and I think the better of you for it. But there are thousands in need of assistance in London alone. You cannot help them all."
"No," Ross agreed, accepting the bitter truth of the corporal's words. "But I will help all that I am able. I may not have wanted this cursed title and the money that came with it, but 'tis mine now, and I will do with it what I wish."
"You sound rather certain of that," Nevil observed shrewdly. "Reached a decision, have you?"
Ross paused, his hand on the door. "Yes," he said slowly. "I have. By God, I have. Good evening to you, Corporal Collier." And with that he turned and left the room.
The carriage was waiting for him, and he was soon on his way to meet Miss Terrington and her aunt. On the short journey to Bruton Street he sat back against the plush squabs and ruthlessly laid out a new plan of attack. Miss Terrington had given him the weapons he needed for the coming battle, and for that he was grateful, but 'twas time he took command of the operation. His little general mightn't know it as yet, but the troops had just mutinied. It would be interesting to see how she accepted the news.
Five
"Adalaide, if you don't cease that wretched pacing and sit down, I vow I shall have you lashed to your chair!"
Lady Fareham stood in the center of the drawing room, her arms folded across her chest and a look of severest censure upon her face. It was an expression Addy had seen many times, but she was too distracted to do other than shoot her aunt an apologetic look.
"I'm sorry, Aunt," she said, even as she kept moving restlessly about the room. "But I am so nervous, I couldn't stay still did my life depend upon it."
"If you don't stop hopping about like a flea, it well could," the older woman retorted with a dark mutter. "The way you're going on, one would think 'twas you about to make your bows rather than his lordship. Sit down, child."
When her aunt used that tone, Addy knew better than to disobey. She lowered herself onto the nearest chair, her fingers drumming out an impatient tattoo. "It's too soon," she said, her mind racing as she considered all that lay ahead of them. "We're rushing our fences. The viscount isn't ready for this. We've had scarce a sennight to bring him up to scratch, and that's not nearly enough time." She leapt to her feet. "I'll send a note to Lord Creshton offering our regrets. I'm sure he—"
"Adalaide Margurite, I said sit down!"
Startled, Addy complied with an unladylike plop. "I'm sorry," she repeated, genuinely contrite. "But you must see how very unfair we are being to Lord St. Jerome! All my other pupils have had their entire lives to come to terms with their stations, but his lordship hasn't even had a month, and he was ill for most of that!"
Aunt Matilda studied her for several seconds before responding. "Are you saying he is not capable of carrying out his task?" she demanded bluntly.
"Of course not!" Addy rallied to the viscount's defense like a mama bear protecting her cub. "His lordship is quite the most intelligent of all my pupils! I have never had any gentleman take to instruction half so quickly."
"Then why are you in such a bother?"
"I—" Addy started to answer, and then stopped. "I don't know," s
he admitted, staring at her aunt. "It's not the viscount's abilities I mistrust so much as I mistrust—"
"So much as you mistrust your own," Aunt Matilda finished with a sympathetic nod. "I understand. The task you've undertaken is daunting enough to give a saint pause, but you've done as well as you could."
"Come, child," she added as Addy opened her lips in protest, "be honest. Would he be any more ready than he is now if you had another week to prepare? Another day?"
Addy thought of the cool, confident man who'd taken his leave of them a few hours earlier, and compared him to some of the men she'd spent months preparing for just such a night. "No," she said softly, grateful for her aunt's cool practicality. "No, Aunt, he would not."
"Good." Her aunt gave a decisive nod. "Now that that is behind us, tell me your plans for the evening."
Addy reviewed her meticulously timed schedule. "I thought I would rendezvous with Lord Creshton and the others to see if there have been any new developments in Parliament," she said thoughtfully. "Then I was going to speak with the men his grace has picked to put his lordship up for membership in the clubs. Oh, and I must have a word with Lady Kirkson about her daughters. They are both the acclaimed beauties of the Season, and if we could get one of them to—"
"I didn't mean your plans for St. Jerome," Aunt Matilda interrupted, scowling. "I meant your plans for yourself."
Addy stared at her in confusion. "Those are my plans for myself."
Her aunt raised her eyes heavenward. "Good Lord preserve me, the girl is as thick as a plank."
"Aunt Matilda, what are you talking about?"
"I am talking, young lady, about the fact you are going to be spending the better part of the evening in the company of some of the most eligible men in the country. This is an opportunity any female with half a brain in her head dreams of, and I want to know what you intend doing about it!"
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 7
